


when in rome

by thebrotherswholoved



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Drabble, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M, Mpreg, Top Dean, Tumblr: thebrotherwholoved, au supernatural
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-28
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-09-01 20:05:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16771963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebrotherswholoved/pseuds/thebrotherswholoved
Summary: prompt credit: @/otp—promptslink to post: http://otp--prompts.tumblr.com/post/141708053906/otp-prompt





	when in rome

The symbols blur inside Dean's head with every twitch of his eyes across the page, fusing together into one big mess of discontinuities and loose ends. Enochian hieroglyphs seem to impale themselves on Greek mythology and other unrelated concepts out of the scope of, well, his entire career. 

He's been at this for a few hours now, hoping that he'll just imbibe the knowledge in old, probably-human-skin pages with the touch of his finger. Unfortunately, that doesn't work, and he's been sat at the table with endless research to be done and no light at the end of the tunnel. This isn't even his case! He just owes Benny some help on research after he helped with a beta nest a few months ago. Either way, he's one hundred and fifty percent out of patience for this shit.

The sunset didn't even faze him when it hit, yet it's as he's looking up for the first time in days when he's met with the sight of the pitch black dead of night outside. Removing his nose from the book entirely, he sighs and sputters malicious words at the ancient text as he pulls his phone from his pocket. 

It's one thirty in the morning. 

Dean rolls his eyes and shuts the book with a glare of contempt, tipping his chair onto the rickety back legs with a heave of his chest. He digs his thumbs into his eyes until he sees geometric fractals from some psychedelic 70s rave, chugs an entire bottle of water and then some, and finally retreats to his duffel bag to shed his clothes which, undoubtedly, harness some residual "blech" from his research.

His red and black checked flannel is tossed to the stained floor first, followed by his combat boots and belt. By the time he shrugs off his jeans and replaces them with the flannel ones Sam bought him on a whim, he's ready to climb into bed and pass out with Sammy in his arms. Just one problem remains: Sammy already took that step and is fast asleep, probably playing with a golden retriever in his dreams. 

Plump pink lips curl into a knowing smile as he gazes at his not-so-little brother wearing his shirt, sleeping in their bed in their motel room. They've spent the majority of their lives in shady motel rooms, sleeping as close to the edge of their adjacent beds as possible in desperation for contact with one another. Sometimes when John was out, he'd sneak little Sam into his bed after a nightmare—this, however, stopped happening altogether when the shy child metamorphosed into a lanky preteen with too much testosterone for his own good. 

Now, they don't have to give it a second thought when one of them slides his arm around the other before turning off the bedside lamp or when a certain person decides to spider-monkey onto the other's back in an unconscious gesture of codependency and love. Their new normal is something they've craved, hungered, and starved for for years; and it feels oh-so-good to be able to say that home is in each other's arms.

Dean sees that Sam's arm is snaked around his waist, middle forearm nudging against the prominent protruding hipbone he's traced with the tip of his tongue more times than he can count. He notes how the younger has his hand resting all snug and secure over the skin just to the left of his belly button. He just about swoons at the way his heart does a triple backflip at this sight, just as it does every time he's reminded of his amazing reality.

The older Winchester meanders over to the side of the bed that Sam is sleeping on and kneels down onto the stained-with-god-knows-what carpet, all while entranced by the sight of his boyfriend and soon-to-be child. Without the self control to stop himself he raises a shaky hand to curl around the bottom slope of Sam's belly, the warmth of the two bodies erupting into his veins through his fingertips. 

He knows that Sam is a heavy sleeper—hell, he's just a giant narcoleptic moose. So it's not even worth questioning if he'd wake up to a few uttered words or soft gestures and touches, right? 

Raising the ball of his hand to press onto the fabric of Sam's shirt in an attempt to have as much contact as possible, Dean dons a fond grin. 

"Hey, little one. I know you can't hear me, but I wanna tell 'ya that I love you more than anything else in this world. Well, alright, your papa's a contender too, but I'd do anything for both of you." 

The words just seem to fly from his lips before he can catch them, but it's not like he cares. He is talking to his unborn child, after all. 

"I'm so happy to be your dad, kid. You're gonna be the best thing in mine and your papa's lives, and we can't wait to meet you. Only a few more months to go, huh?" 

Without warning, Dean feels his vocal chords constrict as he summons the lyrics of his favorite song, the one his mother used to sing as a lullaby to him before her death. He knows every syllable like the back of his hand.

"Hey Jude, don't make it bad,  
Take a sad song and make it better,  
Remember to let her into your heart,  
Then you can start to make it better..."

Every chord rocks his world in a way he never thought they would. Their baby is just taking a sad song and making it better—they're changing his and Sam's world into a place worth living in. Their child is making it all worth it. 

"Hey Jude, don't be afraid,  
You were made to go out and get her,  
The minute you let her under your skin,  
Then you begin to make it better..."

Dean's heart contracts and his chest tightens with the thought of his child ever feeling pain, fear, or sadness. Then he remembers: pain shapes the spirit as change does the soul. 

He carries on for a few more verses, trying to draw the lines out as long and thin as they can go in order to make this moment last as long as possible. His hand is spread across Sam's belly now as he attempts to connect with this little life as much as he can. 

When he reaches the last "hey Jude," he feels a little nudge against his palm. Jumping back a tad, he realises what this means and feels those familiar pools of salty emotion gathering in his eyes. His and Sam's baby is trying to say: "hey, Dad, look! I hear you!" That's enough to make him cry a river. 

Leaning toward his brother's sleeping form, he places a soft, tender kiss onto the spot where he felt the kick. As his tears fall down his rose-tinted cheeks he feels as though he can hear color—it's wonderful, unsure, foreign, yet permanently perfect. 

"I love you, little one. Goodnight," Dean lingers for a moment then stands up onto legs wobbling with emotion. 

At last he slides into bed alongside Sam and tucks his arm around his waist to mimic the younger's paternal motion. As gentle as a pebble on a lake, he kisses the sensitive skin just below Sam's ear and prepares to go to sleep with his two favorite people in his arms. His rest, however, is broken by a voice husky with morning air. 

"I haven't heard you sing that song in years."

Dean can actually feel himself flushing paler than any ghost they've ever ganked, but this pallor is destroyed when all the blood rushes back to his face in an intense blush that makes him feel like his head is on fire. 

Unable to think of a witty comeback or sarcastic remark, he nods his head into the crook of Sam's neck and rubs his hand down his stomach. "Shuddup."

Sam laughs in that beautiful and breathy exhale of a chuckle as he lays his own hand over his brother's. "You're cute." 

"I am not!" The older moans in protest. "You're cute."

"Well, you have to be cute, because I can already tell that this baby is gonna be adorable," a thin arm brushes against Dean's and it feels like nostalgia. This whole situation reeks of new stories with old characters—the best kind, of course. 

"Hm," he mumbles in agreement, simple yet meaningful,"can you be your adorable self while sleeping? 'Cuz I'm tired." 

"You're the one who was singing to our baby at two in the morning." Sam retorts with a smirk. 

"You know you loved it, bitch."

"Whatever, jerk. I love you." 

"I love you too, Sammy."

**Author's Note:**

> idk I thought this was cute:) let me know if you like it! I’ve written so much wincest mpreg but never posted it, but I’d love to if there’s an audience!!


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